My rib cage struggles to contain
The tornado of butterflies
That thud off the glass of my chest
Like a bird on a freshly cleaned window

They then take a sharp turn, in synchronicity
Like a flock of starlings over an open field
And dive into my stomach,
Pulling up just before they hit the bottom

I reach into my head in hopes of salvation
But what once rested between my ears is gone,
Leaving only a post-it note that reads
“be back soon, went to market”

Each breath that leaves my body is on fire
And my legs get heavier with each step
My vision is blurred, my voice is small
And I am not a man, and I am not a human, but I am a feeling

Ribcage rising,
Blackbirds singing,
Alarm clock ringing,
Blue eyes open,
Deep sleep broken,
Faded dreams
Coffee time,
Write a rhyme,
Waiting for the train.
Just keep count
(Of breath amount)
And pray it doesn't rain.
Nearing now,
Remember how
To look like you don't care.
And in this way
You (sort of) stay
In charge of your own air.
Besides, we're almost there.
The start of weekdays always makes me feel uneasy
The first kiss is always the hardest
It burns and hurts like a heat wave,
But then gets normal and it’s not always the smartest
Because eventually the sweet kisses start to cave
Into something of an addiction,
And we use the excuse of stress
Just to feel the sweet kiss and caress.
Nysa 3d
Oh! Mr. Examination, oh!
Mr. Examination
For god’s sake go away,
For we have no preparation.
In class we pay so much attention,
So much as we cannot mention,
You are a burden, you are a tension.
Ah! The problem has no solution
You have given way to corruption
For cheating has become a convention,
Which leads to character destruction?
Who is responsible for this retardation?
We shout without any hesitation,
That you have dragged us to fraction.
Oh! Merciless Mr. Examination!
When will you get satisfaction?
So, run away with infinite acceleration.
We long for your immediate reaction,
Quit, Quit, YOU mental agitation!
My Exams are going to start...
So, this poem is dedicated to Mr. Examination.
I am not a good poet,
And I internally know it
Deep in my heart.
Even though people compliment my so-called “art”.

I am not that smart:
And it causes me to fall apart.
Today when I tried to take a test
I was quite a mess,
And distressed...
Mixed with “depressed”.
I was trying hard...
I still try hard
With my poems that are so-called “art”.

Art is magnificent.
I am not.
Some say I’m “falsely-modest”
Because I am a true “artist”.
I am not.
This is all that I got.
I can’t whip up anything new.
I can’t think any problem through.
I can’t see through another point of view.
I am not.

I am not a poet.
This poem shows it.
I am not an artist.
I am being honest.
I am not that smart.
Even if everyone says that I make words
Into works
Of “art”.

I am nothing.
I am not.
Publishing this little poem today because I’m currently feeling useless.
Anyway, this was created right after I took a test that I was supposed take two weeks before, but I was on vacation so it got extended. I accidentally took up almost 3 hours writing one test and basically missed my class after that class. I was quite stressed because I wasn’t understanding what I was doing. I got a good mark in the end though... yup.
I am a little worker bee,
Who fumbles while she works,
And bears the weight of her duty,
Until her wings are hurt.

Her house thinks her a stranger,
Her uniforms a smile,
She doesn’t see the danger,
While she walks the extra mile.

Her eyes are purple ivory,
As her night knows little sleep,
Though her stomach may be empty,
She cannot seem to eat.

She knows that she is dying,
But still she carries on,
And her wings will keep on flying,
Long after she is gone.
Not trying to
a tired mind
lines of stress.

The bruises inside
they show.
Cuz I struggle to
let them go.

I falter
like a stealthy oaf.
One slice short of a

Such thoughts
tempered at best.
My smile a
bulletproof vest.

I walk on tiptoes
to stretch my calves.
Heart given out
in measured halves.

I sleep lightly
to leach inner pains.
The target myself
tourniquet veins.

Spiraling downward
the darker called.
I’m caught foolish
tripped and sprawled.

It’s funny how
a day begins
watching wild-eyed
as it spins.

Now I’m here
wherever that is
worse for wear
and never his.

Or mine for that matter.
Feeling pragmatic at the moment
CA Smith Jul 9
If only I could sail away
Live at another place for another day
Cast my problems into the sea
To just for once, live without worry
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